Tuesday, November 10, 2009

This past weekend I turned 30. Unlike most sitcom characters and women on Jdate, I wasn't afraid of turning 30. Like the national deficit or the amount of times I've taken a girl's virginity, it's just a number. It's not like I'm an NFL running back, right, predominantly female readership?

But 30 is a good opportunity to take a look back and survey the scene. See what you've done (got molested in Asia), what you haven't (ridden a tiger), and, most importantly, what you've learned.

1.It's not how long you last in the sack, it's how much you can get done.

2.No, you'll never use all that math you learned; and if you have to, there's an app for that.

3.A man should have either a woman or a dog.

4.The best way to settle an argument between two friends is to make a preposterous argument yourself so that they will be forced to align against you. For example, if two girls are arguing over which one has the better fashion sense, you claim that you have the best fashion sense and they will join forces to mock your Pumas.

5.Yogurt is much more delicious than you remember it being.

6.Oatmeal is not.

7.You don't take movie recommendations from the ticket seller, so why take food recommendations from your waiter?

8.Have music on.

9.Never ask a woman the same question twice, but always inquire more than once. Use different words, and follow the second answer.

19.When complimenting a woman, think small not big. Eyes instead of hair; necklace instead of dress; laugh instead of sense of humor.

20.Organic macaroni and cheese.

21.Sometimes judging a book by its cover is just a good time saver.

22.On a road trip, the person not driving has an inherent responsibility to navigate regardless of how tired they might be. Conversely, the driver has an inherent responsibility to know where the hell they are going.

23.Yes to writing love letters. No to quoting song lyrics in them.

24.Every relationship is allowed two and only two break-ups.

25.Avoid movie quotes and the people who use them to describe complex personal emotions. (eg. I don't know if I should take the job. But it's like Andy Dufrense says: Get busy living or get busy dying.)

26.Overrated: Make-up sex. Underrated: Quiet sex.

27.There's no point in having a credit card without a rewards program.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Whoops! Blogging. Forgot about that. Would you believe me if I said I had swine flu? More importantly, would you have proof that I didn't? Okay, swine flu it is!

So after Vietnam we went to Cambodia. One would think that I'd have a ton to write about Cambodia. But you know what? Cambodia is awesome. No one tried to jerk me off, we ate great food, and we rode everywhere in a tuk-tuk. It's like an ecofriendly convertible. Plus, when you ride in one you feel like you're in a Wes Anderson film.

But after that, we went to Bangkok. Ah, Bangkok. It seems like just yesterday I was trying to erase the memory of you from my brain. Perhaps that's why it's taken me so long to write about it: because I needed an adequate amount of time to first suppress the memory to the appropriate depths of my subconscious, let it fester a bit, then rear it's ugly head unsuspectingly, like if Brooke suggests going out for Thai food I would scream "Why don't you go out for Thai food!" and curl up sobbing on the bath mat. And now that I've done that, I am ready to peel the onion, as it were. The awful vagina onion.

(Speaking of that, you might want to skip this post, Mom. I mean, you can read it if you want. But remember that time we were in Scotland and you were grossed out by the haggis? This is a lot worse than that time.)

So while in Thailand, Brooke and I decided that we should visit the Red Light District. I mean, it's famous; and famous for sex, no less. We love sex. It seemed like a natural fit. And though we were well aware of the all-too-seedy underbelly, we were assured by more than a few people that the current version of Patpong (the district's name) was a watered down version of its nefarious predecessor. I mean, the New York Times recommended going there in their 36 Hours in Bangkok article. The last time the New York Times recommended something "gritty and dangerous" it was a Michael Moore film. We felt pretty secure.

The real question, then, was this: Should we go to a sex show? They're all the rage in Bangkok (like Uggs or the new Melrose Place) and I have to admit we were curious. In our heads, it was like a 1940's burlesque show. Sultry music and scantily clad women dancing around a stage, perhaps with a horse whip. Good times.

In hindsight maybe we should have known that a place like Thailand – where the last prime minister was ousted when he went on a trip to the U.S. and the military wouldn't let him back in (the old "you move, you lose" trick) – isn't built for nuance and subtlety. So we shouldn't have been surprised when the cab dropped us off at Patpong and we were immediately approached (you could call it "assaulted" if you wanted to get technical) by men inviting us to sex shows. Each one promised that his sex show was the best. To prove this, they would show you a list of what the show offered, like an x-rated Broadway playbill.

The first time Brooke looked at one, her reaction was a mix of surprise and indigestion. I'll admit, I lingered a bit longer studying the card. There is an inherent fascination to combining the word "pussy" with other surprising nouns like "chopstick" and "rainbow": a Finnegan's Wake of sex show menus.

We took a lap around the market to get our bearings. Wenoted two types of shows: the ground floor, where girls in bikinis dance on stage, and the second floor, on which Brooke commented, “You know the expression – never go upstairs in Patpong.” Then we sat down at a bar and regrouped with a beer and a shot of whiskey. All around us were scantily clad women lingering in doorways; some leading Western men arm-in-arm to nearby hotels. A boy walked by selling lighters that also projected a small image of two people fornicating – so you don't have to stop watching porn when smoking. Obviously.

Brooke and I ordered one more round and looked deep into each other's eyes. This was the second to last night of our sixteen day trip. We'd been through a lot. We were tired. All along, we had followed the "When in Rome" logic. Eat Vietnamese street food! Get massages! Steal a Cambodian baby! (Brooke almost did.) Perhaps now was the time to let that ideology go by the wayside. Just get some curry and hit the sack.

It would have been a great idea, except for three nagging words: Ping pong pussy. They bounced around my head like, well, a ping pong. They say that curiosity killed the cat, but curiosity has also done a lot of wonderful things for cats, like help them discover their love of milk or string. What if ping pong pussy was my ball of string?

Luckily I didn't have to mull that over, because before I knew it Brooke spotted a group of six Americans (three men, three women) following a man with a pussy menu into a sex show. She decided we should follow them, nevermind the fact that it was up the stairs, breaking her sole rule pertaining to the Red Light District. Her logic ("It must be safe if they're going") was admittedly flawed. We went up anyway.

You know how when you're watching a horror movie and the main character is going to walk into a dimly lit room where you know the killer is going to be hiding, and you're like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU STUPID ASSHOLE? DON'T GO IN THERE!" Well we were those stupid assholes. We walked up a narrow staircase that opened up to a second-floor space about the size of a Starbucks. It was a round, dimly lit, smoke-filled room with a round stage in the middle. Small tables lined the perimeter with all seats facing the stage. Most tables were full (about 30 people total) and the clientele ranged from frat boys to – I'm totally serious – an elderly couple, whose faces never changed, even when an errant dart launched from a woman's vagina landed gently on the old woman's shoulder pad. Nothing.

As our waitress was leading us to our table, the feel was more apprehension than excitement. I'd only glanced at what was going on on the stage; it wasn't until we sat down that I really took in the scene. Three women entirely lacking both attractiveness and enthusiasm meandered on stage half naked, setting up for whatever the next act would be. Apparently it was Pussy Open the Bottle, because just as our waitress came over to take our order, a woman on stage, with as little fanfare as possible, squatted over a bottle of coke and popped the cap off with her labia.

Brooke: "Holy shit! Beer, please."Me: "Me too."

Before she left, we noticed that the menu had no prices on it. I asked how much the beers were, and the waitress said they were 100 baht a piece – about $3 (expensive by Thai standards, but look what it came with!). The women popped a few more bottles on stage. No one clapped.

For the next ten minutes, the three women on stage ran through a procession of acts. There was Pussy Blowing Candle (on a birthday cake, no less!); Pussy Shoot Balloon, in which a woman launched pointed darts at helium balloons from a backbend position; and Pussy Smoke, which is really kind of boring after seeing Pussy Shoot Balloon. At some point, a random waitress/hooker had come by and leaned in to shout some question to Brooke and me over the loud music. We communicated that we didn't understand her (not because of the music but because she was speaking Thai) and she gave up – but not before leaving her cocktail behind on our table.

I tried to get her attention, but she was gone. And then I looked around the room. Almost every table had a random cocktail just like ours on it. Fucker. It's a scam. That drink (at a premium, no doubt) gets tagged onto your bill. Patpong: 1, Me: 0.

We finish our beers and contemplate our next move. A woman on stage plays a recorder with her vagina. It's time to leave. There is a can on our table, presumably for money. Perhaps if we just leave 200 baht in the can and make for the door, we can avoid any kind of discussion about this random cocktail.

As soon as I take out my wallet, though, the waitress swoops in and lifts the can off the table. She brings it to a main table up front and tells us to pay there. Behind the table sits a large 40-something year old Thai woman with a face as serious as murder. Without saying a word, she shoves a piece of paper towards me. The first thing I see is the total circled at the bottom: 3,400 baht ($100). Brooke looks over my shoulder and immediately goes on the defensive. "No, no, no," she yells over the music, "we ordered two beers," holding up two fingers for emphasis. I look at the charges: 300 baht per beer, 1,200 for the random cocktail, 1,600 for the show (which was touted as free).

I say to the woman that the waitress told us the beers were 100 baht. She says that this is her bar and only she sets the prices. I contemplate the viability of trying to explain to her that while she is technically correct, it's just good customer relations to inform the customer of the correct prices up front – but I'm interrupted by Brooke, who is continuing to yell over my shoulder and has now emphatically stated that we are not paying that bill.

The Thai woman quickly snares the bill back and crosses off the charges for the show and the mystery cocktail, bringing down the price to a more reasonable, though still inflated, 600 baht (about $20). Basically, she's saying "Your move, cowboy." At this point, I'm almost more afraid of dealing with Brooke if I decide to pay the 600 baht, so I stick to my guns. 200 baht – not a penny more. I throw the money down on the table and stare the woman in the eye. Somewhere behind me on stage a woman is doing something unbelievable with her vagina. The tension is palpable. Brooke makes the next move: She grabs my hand and says, "Let's go."

Wrong move.

Before she can pull me an inch towards the door, an intimidating sort of man, who up till now had been sitting quietly observing the whole scene, stands up from his chair next to the table. With the quickness of a much younger Thai woman, the headmistress steps out from behind the table, stands toe to toe with Brooke, points to the stage and says, "You don't pay? You dance!"

For all of you who have never found yourself face to face with a Thai sex shop operator who is telling your girlfriend that she should blow out a birthday cake, shoot a dart, or play a tune with her vagina, let's be perfectly clear: It's pretty terrifying. Earlier that day, Brooke and I had discussed the movie BrokedownPalace, starring Claire Danes as a mildly attractive American girl who is tricked by a cute boy into unwittingly trafficking narcotics. Neither Brooke nor I could remember if she died at the end of the movie, but we did remember that all the stuff leading up to the point where she did or didn't die sucked HARD. Did I really think that some Thai goons were going to pull me and Brooke into some back room right in front of all these people? No. Was it worth risking? Not really.

Apparently, Brooke saw things differently.

While most women would cower in the face of an irate mama-san, Brooke remains defiant. She is shouting “No! 200 baht! No more!” and pointing to the money on the table. The mama-san is pointing to a bucket of ping pong balls on stage and using a very liberal interpretation of the word "dance." I've got my eye on the guy behind the mama-san standing with his arms crossed. I assume he knows martial arts. This isn't good.

Just then, I remember that the 200 baht I used to pay for the beers was the last money I had in my wallet. Besides that, all I had was some coins. Brooke had the rest of our money in her shoulder bag. I decide to change tactics. "I don't have any money to pay the bill!" I say. To prove this, I take out my wallet and open it up.

The woman looks curiously at me, and insists that I have more money. "Empty your pocket!" she demands. I do, making a big show of it by slamming down a few coins on the table and holding up my chapstick. "You want me to pay the bill? I have to go to an ATM." The mama-san looks Brooke up and down, eyeing her shoulder bag. Brooke clutches the bag like it’s her baby cub, challenging the woman to touch her.

The mama-san backs down. "Fine, you go to an ATM. Right outside! Then pay bill!" I grab Brooke by the hand and drag her past the muscle towards the door and down the dark stairway. Out in the street I continue dragging her through the market. It was like that scene in any movie you’ve ever seen where a man drags a woman through a market as they run for their lives. We dodge through venders, dart between tourists, jump obstacles. I am heroic throughout. Finally at a safe distance, we stand outside a quaint restaurant and catch our breath.

Links

Now Reading

Everything Is Wrong with Me: A Memoir of an American Childhood Gone, Well, Wrong, by Jason Mulgrew

I promise that one of these days I will write a book. Well, promise is a strong word. But until that day (probably) comes, you can tide yourself over reading this blog-turned-book. Then when the day comes that some reviewer writes, "Daniel Murphy's new book is just like Jason Mulgrew's only without the good parts" you can be like, "Hey, I know what he's talking about."

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My little sister, who officially became cooler than me sometime around her thirteenth birthday, sent me this video. If this isn't what music is all about, I don't know what is. (Intercourse? Maybe intercourse.)